Chapter 34
Kaylee
I can't recall a single other time in my life when I drank as much as I did last night.
I think we killed four bottles of wine between Morgan and me, and waking up this morning only to do all the work we shirked last night has left me utterly exhausted.
Even after a late afternoon nap and a shower, I still don't feel like even going downstairs to the party.
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror, feeling like a fool wearing the thrifted wedding dress.
I got it as a joke and had fully planned on ripping it up and covering it in fake blood, but I never got around to it. I had no way of anticipating what my week leading up to the party would be like. If someone told me exactly what had happened was what I was facing, I never would've believed them.
It all feels so unreal, and staring down at my empty left hand doesn't change it.
I took the ring that Dima handed to Ellis to put on my finger off the second we got into the vehicle to drive away from the warehouse.
He mentioned this dress being in my closet and asked if it was bad luck to wear a wedding dress when you weren't getting married, but I felt the same when I had that ring on.
I've never had any intentions of getting married. It's not something I let myself think about often, but it also didn't feel right wearing even a simple gold band when the vows we spoke were lies.
I don't know why I'm missing it right now or why I'm left wondering why he kept his on rather than putting it in the console of the SUV the same way I did that day.
I shake my head, reminding myself that I can't read anything into how he acted at any point during my stay with him because none of it matters.
If he wanted me to stay, he could have easily asked, but he simply kissed my forehead and let me walk away from him.
I swallow down the lump threatening to clog my throat and grab the princess crown from my overnight bag.
I frown down at the cheap plastic thing, noticing that one of the combs used to keep it in my hair is broken.
"Seems fitting," I mutter, throwing the thing back into the open bag.
Knowing I can't let Morgan down when all I really want to do is pull this stupid dress off and crawl back into bed, I leave the room, the thump of the music from the party already drifting up the stairs.
I had worried that we wouldn't be doing her vision for the party justice, but with the lighting lowered and the fog machines working, it looks amazing.
She has somehow managed to combine chic and gory to make for a scene that is Hollywood-worthy, and I feel an ounce of pride swell in my chest for being able to bring this to life with her.
I wave off a waiter who steps in front of me at the bottom of the stairs with a tray of champagne glasses, the thought of taking a sip of alcohol after the night I had making my stomach turn.
He dips his head, looking back at me through the eyeholes of a Phantom of the Opera mask . All of the waitstaff are dressed the same, helping distinguish them from other partygoers. They're in black slacks, white button-down shirts, and black vests with masks. I watch as more than a dozen flutter in and around the party guests, passing out hors d'oeuvresand drinks.
The two men manning the bar in the corner of the massive room are busy filling drink orders, and it seems like the entire thing is going to be a big hit.
It's not hard to find Morgan. She's in a sleek dress she had custom-made to make her look exactly like Cruella de Vil, and I feel a little jealous of the team of people she had to help her get ready. I did the best I could with my hair and makeup, but I'm a high-ponytail kind of girl, and curls around my face, lipstick, and eyeliner are about as good as it gets for me.
She has also hired someone to follow her through the room with a fucking spotlight of all things, her way of making sure everyone knows exactly where she is at all times. I can't imagine wanting to be the center of attention all the time. Having people watch me so closely makes my skin crawl, but more power to her.
She's loving the shit out of the focus others have on her.
I smile at whoever is walking around in one of those inflated dinosaur costumes and know that it will chap Morgan's ass when she spots them. She wanted a super-chic party and the playfulness of that one costume in particular will rub her the wrong way. I pray she has had a few drinks before she sees them, if only to save the feelings of the one wearing it.
I see a woman in a very expensive-looking mermaid costume, and it makes me jealous of the amount of boobs she has in order to hold such an elaborate thing up. Another woman in a fairy costume makes me smile because the strobe light flashing in the room makes her look ethereal and perfect.
I now fully understand Morgan hiring an expensive videographer and photographer. People are going to cherish some of the images shot tonight because this party is more extravagant than it was last year, and that's saying something because last year it was incredibly nice.
I grow more and more impressed with my friend's vision as I walk around the room. Every tiny thing was thought of and catered to. As lovely as everything is, I sure hope she hired a cleaning crew to come and get her house back in order tomorrow. There's going to be a lot to clean up, and I know I won't have the energy for it.
Another waiter offers me a drink, his tray filled with a smoldering concoction, and I almost cave, wishing I felt a little less of everything right now.
This party is amazing, and the music is perfect, but it doesn't begin to touch on the hurt still brewing inside of me.
I reach for the drink but pull my hand back just before my fingers wrap around the stem.
In telling me about his job, Ellis was adamant about making me promise that I wouldn't risk someone drugging me, no matter where I was or who I was with.
"You sure?" the man asks, his voice smoky and full of challenge.
"No thank you," I say, but instead of him trying a second time to get me to take a drink, he dips his head.
"The green drinks are non-alcoholic if that's what you're looking for," he offers, pointing to a waitress on the other side of the room. "And the trays with the red lights on them are gluten-free."
"Thanks," I say to him, but he's already walking away to offer drinks to others.
I head to a station in the corner and grab a bottle of water instead, turning back to the party to people watch. Despite the music thumping through the house, I've never been one to dance at events like this.
Who am I kidding?
Morgan's parties are the only time I've ever been to something like this, and as popular as she is, I doubt she knows all of these people personally. I know from her talking about the guest list that they're all from different aspects of her life including work, and people she has met online. Morgan has never met a stranger and she has had enough experiences in life that she's capable of carrying on a conversation with just about anyone, no matter what stage of life they're in. I find myself once again jealous of my outgoing friend and her ability to fit into any situation.
I feel the presence of someone beside me, but I ignore them, hoping they'll understand my lack of attention means I don't want to speak to anyone.
But instead of the stranger catching the hint, they step in closer, so close that I can feel their costume brush my arm.
I take a step back and look in their direction, but I can't seem to form words when I see Ellis standing beside me.
The worst color purple I've ever seen is wrapped tightly around his face. If I hadn't spent hours in the early morning light, staring at his face the other day like a crazy person, I might not recognize him.
A green stem protrudes from the top of the outfit, and it confuses me until I take another step back and look at the costume fully.
"An eggplant?" I ask as laughter bubbles from my throat.
"I was a dick," he says, his voice full of regret.
"Very creative," I say, my heart racing at not knowing what this might mean.
It doesn't stop hope from blooming inside of me like a late spring garden, but I can't let myself get lost in hope again. I've spent the last day and a half in pain, feeling tortured. I won't survive him popping back up just to hurt me again, but he holds up a hand, silencing me when I open my mouth to tell him as much.
"I never should've let you leave," he says, taking a step closer to me so I can hear his words. "I should've begged you to stay."
"You wanted me gone," I argue, unwilling, now that he's in front of me, to let him lie so easily. "I heard Rooster tell you not to be hasty, and you told him it was time for me to go."
The smile that tugs up the corner of his mouth makes me wish I had taken that drink from the waiter just so I could throw it in his face.
"You misunderstood," he says, taking another step closer and removing all the distance between the two of us. "I told him it was time to go, as in I don't think we should stay there on Cerberus property as a married couple. That wasn't part of the deal I made with Cerberus, and I felt like I was asking too much of my new job."
I can barely hear him speak over my pulse as it pounds in my ears. Now that I think about it, his wording might be right.
"I wanted to ask you if we could live at your place until we could find something a little bigger," he continues. "The point is that I care for you. I don't care how we got started. I want to see exactly where this takes us. It killed me to let you go."
"But you did let me go," I argue.
Troy pulled shit like this when he wanted to manipulate his way back into my life. Fool me once or a dozen times or however the saying goes.
"What would you have done if I told you that you couldn't leave?" he challenges.
"I would've run into your arms and slipped my panties to the side," I say, making my eyes go wide and my hand reach up to cup over my mouth.
His smile transforms but then falters a second later.
"I couldn't be one more person in your life telling you what you can and can't do, Kaylee. I would never manipulate you like that."
"You could've told me how you felt," I offer.
"I did that," he says. "Were you really asleep? I was sure you were awake."
Oh, shit. They weren't just drunken words? He really meant them?
I seriously messed this all up, didn't I?
"Are these good tears or bad tears?" he asks, lifting his hand and using a thumb to swipe one from my cheek.
"Good tears, I think."
Instead of dwelling on what has happened, he pulls me to his chest and begins to sway with the music. I lean away only long enough to toss my bottle of water on a tray with the empty glasses on it, and then I give him my undivided attention, feeling like a princess whose prince just professed his love.